


Time to Pretend

by SilentSinger



Series: The Cricket Chronicles [4]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Angst, Blasphemy, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Feels, Gangbang, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, i promise this ends a lot softer than the opener would suggest, taking blasphemous porn to a whole new level because apparently that's my thing now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 22:30:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15180767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: Charlie and Cricket get shitfaced and contemplate their station in life, following the events of The High School Reunion.I’m feeling rough I’m feeling raw I’m in the prime of my life.





	Time to Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> This is potentially the most offensive thing I’ve ever written. It uhh, gets better? I think?

The phrase “every man for himself” should be firmly embedded in the vocabulary of any person who finds their life in as much of a tailspin as Matthew Mara. Years ago – back when he was still floundering under the delusion that he could get his life back on track – Matthew would have recoiled at the notion of such a ruthless sentiment. But that was then.

Before his run-in with the Mob and his first foray into the delightful and beneficial properties of recreational substances, before canines of all shapes and sizes took more than a passing interest in him, and way before that goddamn Chinaman stole his kidney, he’d endeavoured to conduct himself as though he were still a man of the cloth – because it stood to reason that God simply wouldn’t allow despicable things to happen to a person who still served Him to the very best of their abilities. If only that had been true.

Approximately two weeks after leaving the priesthood and subsequently living on the streets, Matthew had found himself cornered like a rat, on his knees on the dank concrete at the dead end of a piss-scented alley, surrounded by five imposing, burly-ass men, and their equally burly-ass junk.

These leering reprobates had quipped about Communion, about taking Christ’s body into oneself and being sanctified by His nourishment, and Matthew – safe in the knowledge that God’s will had surely led him to this particular juncture – had sucked and slurped at each man’s meaty dick in turn, working them one by one like some kind of X-rated production line, before drinking down the slick, warm fluid as each fellow unloaded the goods. When you’ve not eaten for three days, even the astringent saltiness of authentic nut butter (one hundred percent natural ingredients!) can seem like a gift from Heaven.

When anonymous-johnson-number-five had decided that the Good Father’s mouth was not at the forefront of his interests on that balmy, September evening, and had flipped him over to pound his ass against the nearest trash can instead, Matthew had experienced a momentary lapse of faith. With his asshole stretched almost to breaking point and an unyielding hand pressing his face against the coarse surface of a brick wall, Matthew had silently prayed for the moment to end, but also – his cock stiffening as each savage thrust from this gargantuan motherfucker hits him right fucking _there_ – to never, _ever_ fucking end.

The brawny cunt had pulled out and spun him around before the big finish, covering Matthew’s unsuspecting face with his viscous seed, and Matthew – letting go of any inhibitions he’d dared to hold on to during this enlightening experience – had given himself a few quick, firm strokes before ejaculating hard onto the concrete below as the rest of the rabble whooped and cheered, their rambunctious hollering piercing the yawning quiet of the dark, damp alley.

Sated at last, the fellow had dropped a five-dollar bill onto Matthew’s trembling lap, with the promise that he’d be back tomorrow. Matthew would be there, of course; even the most reprehensible of work was still work, and it was God’s will, after all.

Several messy yet ultimately fulfilling nights passed, garnering Matthew a sweet thirty bucks. Eventually, his illicit companion grew weary, found a better whore, or perhaps died the noble death of any true hedonistic degenerate. Either way, Matthew never saw him or his associates again, and he dealt with the memory of those semen-splattered, tawdry evenings in a manner typical of any self-effacing Catholic man: Repress, repress, repress.

At the very least, Matthew had taken aboard two pieces of valuable knowledge as a result of that fateful night and the subsequent encounters that followed. The first was that he now harboured an unwanted yet irrepressible desire to bless people right in the goddamn face, in much the same manner as his first paying customer. Do unto others. The second was that it’s a dog-eat-dog world, and you really do have to get yours while you goddamn can.

Every man for himself.

****

Grifting those sons of bitches should have been as easy as taking candy from a baby. Adriano Calvanese, Tim Murphy, Brad Fisher and the rest of those dumb fuckers have surely never experienced an original thought in their entire goddamn lives; their shared IQ is probably double digits, for Christ’s sake. Regardless, they’d gotten wise to his scheme and thrown his ass out to the parking lot – where his offer of sucking them all dry by way of an apology had been met with laughter, disgust, a punch in the ribcage and a swift kick to the testicles.

After picking himself up off the ground, he’d snuck around back and made his way to the basement – where at least he could enjoy a night’s shelter (until the janitor finds him in the morning and kicks his ass back out onto the streets), and the mind-numbing comfort of noxious chemicals.

What really fucking stings, Cricket muses, as he takes another deep huff of a disinfectant-soaked rag, is that he’d put so much goddamn thought into this plan. Father O’Grady had willingly taken his payment of a third of a bottle of Jameson and a tattered photo of a couple of (non-brown) cats, and in return had loaned Cricket his clerical clothing and allowed him the use of his shower. It’s just a crying shame the senile old bastard didn’t possess any antifungal cream.

Still, a couple more lungfuls of this sweet, pine-scented nectar and the irritation of ringworm will be a thing of the past, along with his inhibition, dignity, and potentially that half a stale cranberry muffin he’d found and eaten for lunch.

It sounds like the whole humiliating affair is over now, anyway. The sound of chairs scraping the floor and feet heading towards the exit had occurred directly after the commotion of several people stomping around to a George Michael number, and Cricket is grateful for the silence.

He stops short of dousing the cloth for a third hit, when he hears the unmistakable voice of Charlie Kelly approaching – conversing energetically with himself, by the sounds. As his footsteps descend the stairs, Cricket braces himself for a confrontation, despite the fact that the goddamn dirtgrub hadn’t possessed anything worth stealing. Perhaps he’s here to retrieve that laughably bogus diamond earring he’d taken from that alcoholic waitress chick, Thingy Whatsername. (Hannah? Anna? Lana? _Bo-bana banana-fana, fo-fana...)_ Shit, does this place only have one exit? This is the Y2K bunker and being shot in the goddamn hand all over again. Does Charlie usually carry a gun? Can’t a guy just get wasted and lament his life in fucking peace?

“Whoa,” says Charlie, as he reaches the basement floor, ceases his one-sided conversation and blinks his eyes to see in the dim light. Evidently, he’s surprised to see Cricket and therefore isn’t here for his blood. Hopefully. “Cricks? What the shit are you doing here?”

Relief. Sweet, sweet relief. “Oh, you know,” Cricket replies, his confidence returning like a sudden rush of blood to the head. “Just chilling, man, and enjoying a little of this wannabe Lysol.”

“Dude, that’s exactly what I need right now,” Charlie says with a grin. “Can I join you?”

“Sure, bro. Pull up a seat,” Cricket quips, patting the stone floor beside him. He isn’t certain why Charlie wants to spend time with him, but a person should never turn down the company of another human being. It sure as hell beats being rawed in the neck by a horny dog.

Minutes bleed into hours as they shoot the shit – bitching about high school and the asshats therein, assorted janitorial duties, and the ever-increasing street value of cocaine. A man has to gobble down at least three cocks for a lousy bump, these days.

“Is that why they call it blow?” Charlie asks, before bursting into a fit of infectious laughter.

There really is no sensation like the comforting feeling of wellbeing that inhalants provide. It’s an inner tranquillity and joy akin to waking up in a warm house on Christmas morning as the snow falls thick and fast outside, bursting with excitement as you wait for your parents to join you downstairs so you can finally open your presents. There’s also the inevitable dizziness and nausea, but Cricket chooses to move past that, for now.

They indulge in a few more hits and take to stargazing – lying side by side on the cool concrete as they stare up at the pitch-black ceiling, enjoying shooting stars and galaxies abound as a giggling Charlie points at various star formations and informs Cricket of their names. Despite his intoxicated state, Cricket is certain that the Rusty Spoon and the Incestuous Shopkeepers aren’t real constellations.

Eventually the merriment and laughter fades away, and they’re left with a suffocating silence, which hovers thick and impervious like a dense fog.

“What are you really doing here?” Cricket asks finally. There’s no way on earth Charlie would have voluntarily spent time with him, and that’s just a goddamn fact.

Charlie makes a sound of anguished frustration and sighs. Evidently unburdening himself for absolution was not on his agenda tonight. “So, like, I had an opportunity to bang the Waitress earlier. And then Schmitty appears out of fuckin’ nowhere.” He gesticulates into the darkness to demonstrate Schmitty’s grand arrival. “And she goes off with him instead! The Gang were all there and I just- I just needed to be away from those guys and all of that shit for a while.”

Cricket can’t help but empathise with the poor bastard, and maybe it’s the disinfectant talking but his long-standing belief of every man for himself suddenly seems callous and unappealing. He doesn’t hate Charlie; never has. In his own way, the guy is just as fucked up as Cricket himself. Sure, he might have cruelly introduced a naive Matthew Mara to illicit substances, but the cold, hard truth of the matter was that they’d helped him. Every tweak, roll, blaze or whatever-the-shit he’s ever experienced sure as fuck beats reality.

“Ouch, bro,” says Cricket. “You’ve been wanting to bone that chick since high school, right?”

“Right. But I don’t; not really. And that’s the problem.”

“Yeah?” Cricket asks, surprised. This shit just got all kinds of interesting.

“Yeah. It’s Dee, man.”

The mere mention of Dee’s name causes a chill to radiate throughout Cricket’s body and a sharp pain to hit him right between the eyes, as though he’s just chugged down a Slurpee – although he’ll be fucked if he can remember what a Slurpee tastes like now.

“We bang,” Charlie continues. “Not so much anymore but, we did. We banged a whole lot.”

Cricket shifts uncomfortably, partly at the idea of Charlie Kelly repeatedly fucking the ex love of his life’s brains out, and partly because this hard-ass floor is really doing nothing for his back.

“And Dee, well, she wants more. She’s always, like, trying to get me to commit and shit. I guess I use the Waitress to push her away. Eventually, she just got super pissed and we stopped banging altogether. Hell, we barely even spend time together anymore. Not like we used to.” He sighs and picks at a loose thread protruding from his shirt.

“Sounds like Paradise Syndrome, my dude.” For the time being, Cricket is Matthew Mara once more, putting a pin in his personal agenda as he offers counsel to a troubled mind. It feels unusual after so many years, but he has to admit, it’s also kinda reassuring – much like the sense of belonging he’d experienced as he observed his reflection in the mirror after donning Father O’Grady’s remarkably well-preserved clergyman garb. Besides, he’s still rocking that outfit, and hey, if the collar fits...

“Huh?” says Charlie.

“Okay, it’s like this,” Cricket continues, turning his head to face Charlie. The concrete feels cool and refreshing against his skin. “Your life is a pretty sweet deal, right?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, dude. I get to bash rats and huff stuff and drink beer whenever I want. But...” He trails off, and his unfinished sentence hangs heavy in the chill basement air.

“But it’d be better with Dee,” says Cricket. “She’s your missing piece, bro. And if you had her, then you’d truly have everything. The problem is I think you’re afraid of that. Having everything, I mean. Because if you did, what would you focus on? And that, my friend, is Paradise Syndrome.”

“I guess,” says Charlie, sounding utterly forlorn. “She’s been trying to bang that jerk Adriano all night, too. She said it was to avenge us and shit, but I know the real reason. It’s what I fucking deserve, man.”

Cricket is at a loss, and he wishes above all else that he’d never asked; he shouldn’t have poked that open wound. Suddenly, making Charlie feel better is at the pinnacle of his list of priorities, but at this point in time, he only knows three things with absolute certainty: drugs, sex, and all the lyrics to _Do the Bartman,_ for some reason. The drugs haven’t helped, and he doubts Charlie is in the mood for a nostalgic singalong. He weighs up his options, before making the decision to unzip Charlie’s jeans. Charlie doesn’t stop him.

“Hey, listen. I can make it all go away for a little while, if you like,” Cricket whispers. “I could even lay behind you; that way you don’t have to look at me,” he concludes, with a hint of bitterness.

It’s the closest thing to absolution Cricket can offer. Besides which, he gives fantastic hand jobs – and he doesn’t generally give them away for free, either. One of these babies would usually set you back a reasonable three bucks, rounded up to a whole fiver if you want a finger up your ass to boot.

Without a word, Charlie shifts to lie on his side. “Brad Fisher tore my underwear,” he says finally. “And Dee saw the whole goddamn thing. That’s what they told me, anyhow. I was unconscious.”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Cricket breathes. He spits into his palm and rubs his hands together, before adjusting position and freeing Charlie’s cock from his pants. “It’s okay,” he repeats.

He props himself up on his elbow as he works Charlie with his free hand, coaxing with long, lazy strokes as Charlie stiffens against his palm. He’s thicker than Cricket was expecting, truth be told.

“I miss her, man,” Charlie says in a small voice.

Cricket murmurs unintelligible words of reassurance as he increases his speed and pressure – twisting gently at the base as he passes up and down Charlie’s length with the utmost reverence – and after a while, he closes his eyes and loses himself to the unctuous harmony of skin sliding wetly against skin, and the ragged tempo of Charlie’s uneven breathing.

His own dick stirs in kind as Charlie writhes and bears backwards with his hips, and as much as Cricket would like Charlie to turn around, overpower him and annihilate his ass with that thick cock until he’s pleading for mercy, he puts that aside. That fantasy can be shelved for whenever he’s feeling worthless, lonely, or regretting his life choices after a particularly rough trick. Tonight isn’t about getting his; not this time.

Allowing himself to concede defeat to Cricket’s highly accomplished talent, Charlie soon reaches the point of no return. As he throbs and twitches in Cricket’s grip, he reaches for the bottle of off-brand disinfectant nearby and awkwardly soaks the rag for a long, deep huff – which muffles his cry of pleasure when he climaxes, spurting thick and hot and wet over Cricket’s fist.

Cricket silently commends himself on a job well done, and wipes his hand on his pants. It’s not like Father O’Grady will even notice, anyway.

He takes one final chance and drapes his arm back over Charlie, and they remain that way as they both succumb to the welcome embrace of exhaustion.

“Thanks, dude,” Charlie manages, stretching his limbs and punctuating with one motherfucker of a yawn.

Cricket smiles and holds Charlie a little bit tighter. It feels incredible, knowing that another person has enjoyed his company – even if it’s only for one chemical-fuelled, bemoaning life’s woes sort of night.

“I’m imagining you’re Dee, you know,” Charlie mumbles, his voice thick with the onset of sleep.

“I know,” says Cricket.

_I know._

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise if you suffered through this for the Chardee, but it is there if you squint.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [From something truly abhorrent, something beautiful can be made. Click me!](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/176207137098/they-indulge-in-a-few-more-hits-and-take-to)


End file.
